


Faded Glory

by SassholeNuts



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Drop Those Breeches!, F/F, F/M, Let's See That Elvhen Glory!, M/M, Some OCs Are Not Mine But I Love Them And Asked Their Creators Permission to Use Them, Stripper! AU, Varric's Nicknames Are Used As Stage Names
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 13:28:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13682634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SassholeNuts/pseuds/SassholeNuts
Summary: A few years after the Exalted Council, Varric purchases a strip joint in Frostback Basin. Solas, Thom, Iron Bull are the performers. Iron Bull prefers being a bouncer, but loves the attention too much to not be on the floor once every blue moon. Cullen doubles as a bartender and waiter. Orlesians and Fereldans alike scandalize him daily. Sera coined the name 'Faded Glory' just to irritate an elfy individual. The name stuck. Now, Solas has egg on his face and fishnets on his ass.





	Faded Glory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra tags along with the former Inquisitor, Thelrand Lavellan and his now husband, Dorian Pavus, on their night out at the Faded Glory. She meets a rather familiar face and finds herself too dressed up amidst the smoke and sweat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to Dismalzelenka!

Cassandra was always armored, even when she didn’t have armor on. Terms like care-free and laid back never were used to describe her. People were more accustomed to use words like harsh and unforgiving. Punching a bear in the face will do that to a woman. She felt this more keenly than she had ever felt before at the Faded Glory. A shoddy tavern-turned-strip-joint tucked in to the ass end of Frostback Basin, home to all sorts of debauchery. There was gambling, smoke tables with hookah pipes, and men prancing around in assless chaps like wild broncos. Of course, Varric was the owner of this establishment. 

It wasn’t that she was complaining about the sights. She rather enjoyed them, though she’d die before she’d admit it.  
  
Cassandra had only come with the former Inquisitor and Dorian as an escort making sure no one bothered them on their night out. Their second honeymoon as Thelrand had dubbed it. They had returned to where it all started. Haven. A makeshift town had erected after the avalanche. People cared. Cleaned it up. Rebuilding piece by piece. It was mostly tents and refugees until a few years after the Exalted Council. Things had died down for the Inquisition with it being disbanded and the members scattered to the wind. Some members ended up here like dandelion seeds returning home. Still, it was a matter of them being noticed especially at a place as debonair as this. They didn’t want to be noticed. They wanted to be left alone. Free to live.   
  
“Ugh.” Cassandra had groaned as she read the sign. “Really? He couldn’t have come up with something more clever. It doesn’t even make sense.”  
  
The two men had exchanged a secret look and Cassandra had the urge to punch them for not telling her. Not a bear-sized punch. Just a little punch  
  
Dorian had sniggered through his nose, his arm around Thelrand’s waist. Which was ripe with a multitude of leather belts.

“You give the dwarf too much credit, my lovely Cassandra.”

He was wearing a lovely suit. Gilded peacock feathers stitched into the blue. Curls of a dracolisk sewn into his asymmetrical collar. A sash of canary yellow tied around his waist. Gold tapering off of his ears, neck, and wrists. His hair had grown longer, braided and draped over his shoulder like an ornament.

So had hers, ending just at her shoulders in feathered blades. She was wearing a dress the color of periwinkles. Two triangles cut out of the velveteen near her midsection. She felt exposed. It was Dorian’s idea. Told her to leave the sword and shield at home. She had rolled her eyes, but put on the dress all the same. There was a wavy dagger hidden beneath her hem. Only a fool would go unarmed anywhere. She patted it. It was there. Somehow that made it better. Blades were easy. Dresses were not.  
  
The sign swung on rusty hinges. Faded Glory was burnt on the wood in big scrawled letters. Pale neon flashed at its borders. The same shade as the fade, green as a sage leaf.  
  
Cassandra had rolled her eyes for the third time that night as Dorian opened the door for her, ever the gentleman, and she stepped inside the strip joint. 

 

That was four hours ago.   
  
She was stuck here with lovers who were insufferably affectionate. It had been two years since their wedding, but they were still in the honeymoon phase.  _Ugh_. Cassandra thought as she watched Thelrand curl his husband’s hair around his finger. His braid slipping from its band. Disheveled.  
  
“Have I ever told you how ravishing you look? I like this new style you have going on,  _Vhenan_.”  
  
“You have told me. Many times,  _Amatus_. I believe you’ve said it six times just tonight.”  
  
“Really, only six times?” He placed a kiss to his brow. Chaste.   
  
They purred like kittens drinking milk. Cassandra groaned quietly to herself, and tried to become one with the leather of their booth seat. She didn’t know what to do with her legs. Cross them maybe. Dresses were strange.   
  
_Maker_ , Cassandra blinked heavenward,  _where’s a drink when you need one?_  
  
As if to answer her prayers, a familiar profile swaggered on by.  _Cullen? No, it couldn’t be him._  She craned her neck. He turned as if he had felt her eyes on him. On his ass, more specifically.   
  
When Cassandra spotted the former Commander in chaps of maroon-dyed suede, she nearly lost her breath. He was carrying a bronze tray full of drinks, all different shapes and colors. This place smelled of smoke and sweat. Her mind, hazy. Her mouth, open wide.  
  
“C-Cassandra?!” Cullen stammered, a blush blooming high on his cheeks under the black light. Red like a carnation. There were hand prints of neon pink on his bare chest. Nipples pebbled in the draft of the shoddy place. Some streaks dipped under his waistband. The fine hairs there luminous and obvious. She swallowed, forcing herself to look away. “I didn’t think I would see you here.”  
  
Her eyes were zeroed in on those mesmerizing streaks. There was blue streaks too, she noted. Whose hands had made those marks? Her fingers itched. Cullen cleared his throat and her eyes jumped back up to his. Warm, like honey.   
  
“I didn’t think to be here, Cullen.” Cassandra said after a brief search for her voice.  
  
There was a heartbeat of silence, then it ended.  
  
“May I get you something to drink before the show starts?” Cullen asked, all right and proper.   
  
“A fuzzy navel, please.” requested Cassandra. 

 

Cassandra was deep in her cups.   
  
She had had five fuzzy navels thus far, ruby blossoming underneath cheekbones. The angles of her harsh face smoothed, buffered, serene.  
  
She felt a presence at her side.    
  
Cullen.   
  
Again.   
  
He was waiting for her to finish this one too she realized. She tossed it back. The ice clacking against her teeth. She shivered, felt good. She set it on his brass tray, and took the fresh one.   
  
Though, he had garnished this one’s rim in a coat of salt.   
  
She looked at him then, curiosity gleaming in her brown eyes. “I didn’t ask you for the salt, Cullen. How did you know?”   
  
“You told me.”   
  
She raised her brows, doubtful.    
  
He shuffled his feet.   
  
“You told me you like your drinks like that at the Herald’s Rest way back when. I feel silly for remembering. I mean, your tastes could have changed since then—”  
  
“Cullen.” Cassandra interrupted his tangent.   
  
”I didn’t mean to…”  
  
“Cullen.” She was stirring her drink with a twisted straw of the brightest of oranges. “They haven’t.”   
  
She wasn’t entirely sure she was still talking about drinks. She wasn’t sure, because she was looking at him with an intensity only a warrior could possess and her pretty mouth was smiling.

 

She remembered that night he spoke of. After the chaos in the Arbor Wilds. When she saw him on the wall of that ruin, sword raised, lion helm roaring its fury to the heavens. It was like one of her books. He could have been on the cover. Valiant. Selfless. Strong. Saved her life. She could still hear the crack of his shield. A great sundering noise. They had locked eyes. For a moment, she had felt it. That stupid warmth in her chest, inflating like a balloon. Then, like warriors do, they charged back into battle. Not thinking anything of it.

Except, Cassandra was. Thinking of it. Always. She thought about it the whole way back to Skyhold. She thought about it as she handed Scout Jim the letter she wrote. The letter that entailed one question: Care to have a drink with me? She had signed it too. Her name he called her. Short, blunt, and sweet. Cass. With swirly, fancy, stupid letters. She thought about it as she waited on that barstool. Her butt getting sore. She thought about leaving. She didn’t. He arrived in his armor. He still had his lion helm on for Maker’s sake.

It was like tonight, except was Cabot mixing their drinks, not Cullen. He had forgotten the salt. Cullen remembered the salt. She remembered Cullen.

“Something wrong with your drink, Cassandra.”

“I like mine with salt.” She gulped it down anyway. Her fingers itched.

She was guarded, not saying what she wanted. He took off his helm, put it on the bartop, swished his whiskey in his mouth, and swallowed. Loud. She heard it. He clenched and unclenched his fingers. He was shy, not doing what he wanted. They sat at the bar. Armored. They were always armored. The drinks solved that, then they were speaking.

“So, Cullen…”

“Cassandra, why…”

His hand sought the back of his neck. He rubbed it. She cleared her throat, smiled.

“You go first.” They said together.

Cassandra sighed, shook her head, and did what she did best. She acted. She was sick of the pauses. Sick of the hesitancy. Sick of the glances and the fluttery feelings. Sick of not doing a damn thing about it. She was too brash, too bold. She grabbed Cullen by the face, and kissed him. He kissed her back.

Finally.

After the blushing and the shock and the heaving breaths, it was like a bottle uncorking. Everything was wet. Everything was a mess. She ran out of Herald’s Rest, he chased her. He was fast. So was she. All the way up the battlements. They collided again, lips and tongues and hands this time. Oh how he had touched her that night. He had given her a coin. Its shine was dull from fingertips rubbing it. He was always rubbing things. His neck. That coin. Her that night. He said it brought him luck. It was hers now. He was hers now. He fell asleep. She didn’t. She got scared afterwards. She left in the morning. Morning arrived so fast. She didn’t give him a reason.

 

 _Here_  she was now. Cullen remembered the salt. Cassandra remembered Cullen.   
  
“They haven’t?” He cleared his throat.  
  
“They haven’t.” She affirmed.  
  
“Oh,” He coughed lightly. “Ah, good.”  
  
Blonde wisps curled like sheep’s wool on his chin and along the cut of his jaw. He was living up to the namesake Varric had dubbed him. Curly. She couldn’t deny that she liked the scruff he was sporting. It had been so long since she had seen him, and to see him like this—Her teeth sunk into the loose flesh of her lip, tugging it slightly until it snapped. Her tongue ran over the salt dusting the rim of her glass.   
  
“Don’t.”   
  
It was so quiet that she thought she had imagined it, but one glance at the blushing bartender had her teeth seeking out that tender skin again.   
  
“Don’t,” He managed more gruffly like a snort of a bear. “ _Cass_ …”   
  
Space between them was boiling. His eyes, honeyed. Much like the wool that curled upon his jawline. Her cheeks, scarlet. Much like her lips in the dim light. He licked his own. Her fingers itched again. A wild thought surged through her hazy brain. 

It was Cassandra’s turn to clear her throat lest her hand grew bold enough to venture out to touch his beard. To curl her fingers in it and drag his face down to hers—He leaned into her wild thoughts, into her reality.  
  
“Ah, Ladies…” A voice like tumbled citrine came through the loud speaker. The voice’s owner was none other than Varric Tethras himself. Only that dwarf would somehow ruin her night by just speaking alone.   
  
Cassandra groaned, straightening her back like a sword unsheathed. Their lips had been so close. She had felt the hotness of his breath on her tongue. She wanted to feel him again.

“The show is starting. Where is Dorian?” Thelrand asked Cassandra from where he was sitting just mere inches from her.  _Had he been there the entire time? What was she thinking? Of course he had been._  Dorian was nowhere in sight. Cullen had straightened.  _Had he been leaning over the table?_    
  
She knew she was blushing. Her desire was red and obvious and hot like an iron on her face. She said desperate to change the air that was hot and suffocating around her.  _Why was it so hot in this wretched place?  
_

“You make a wonderful fuzzy navel.”

“Ah, thank you, Cassandra.” His hand was rubbing the back of his neck. She focused on his beard instead of his mournful eyes, and noticed little groves where her fingers had been. The phantom prickle of his beard still danced on her fingertips.  _Oh Maker! She had truly grabbed him by the beard!_  “Should you require anything, I’ll be behind the bar.”  
  
She blinked slowly. Her brain haze was thick like morning fog. Thick like the hangover she was going to have tomorrow. “Okay.” She grinned stupidly. 

“Do you want a man that makes you laugh? Are you tired of the same old dog and pony show of muscles and brawn? Well, you’re in luck, because the first act of the night is our one and only, Chuckles!”   
  
There was applause and cheering. Varric walked off the stage. The lights dimmed and a pink spotlight was aimed at the curtain. Out from behind the curtain appeared a leg, then a man slinked out from it like sculpted gelatin. Thelrand gave an ear-shattering whoop as a scantily-clad, bald, elvhen man parted the curtains. Chuckles was wearing baggy trousers the color of tangerines. The same color as her twisted straw. The same straw that dropped from her open mouth and onto the floor.  _Tip. Tap_. It went.  
  
That was the only thing he was wearing.   
  
Just that.   
  
One second he was wearing them, and the next second he wasn’t, having ripped them away to reveal his sculpted legs wrapped in pink fishnet stockings. There was an obnoxious jeer from the back row, consisting of the words: elvhen and glory.     
  
Chuckles paused his routine just to glare at the owner of the jeer, then seamlessly shifted back into his choreography as if he was the Maker liquefied.  
  
Cassandra almost choked on her drink.   
  
Thelrand nudged her with his bony elbow, barely keeping himself contained. “Do you see this?” His face was full of joy and flushed, obviously inebriated. Though he was partial to honey whiskey. He had only had three shots. Fortunately, Thelrand didn’t comment on the almost kiss between her and Cullen.  
  
“I see it, Lavellan.” Cassandra said, careful to shield her drink that was in danger of being elbowed.  
  
“Where’s Dorian?” He asked again. “He is missing it!” Thelrand shot from his seat. Too fast for his hazy brain. He wobbled on his feet.  “Dorian! Dorian! Come back, quick!” He cupped his hands, nearly pitched forward into the table. Cassandra caught him with a trained arm. She was here to protect them after all, at least that’s what she kept telling herself. “Maybe you should sit. He’ll be back shortly.” She told Thelrand. He sat. The leather cushion oozing out a sad puff of air.

She heard ice clacking against glass. Her heart sped up. The figure that came around the corner wasn’t who she hoped. It was just Dorian.

“What, Amatus?” Dorian shimmied into the booth carrying a glass in each hand. One was an electric blue, the other was clear like quartz. He set the clear one in front of Lavellan. “Drink up, dear. I love you, but I’m afraid you can’t handle your whiskey. Do try to be quieter, my loving husband, or else we will be kicked out on our first night here.” He tutted. “Tsk, tsk. I can’t take you anywhere, can I?”

“Mythal’s tits, are you really cutting me b-off?” Lavellan belched mid sentence to his husband’s distaste. “Why? I’m perfectly fine. Just look at what Solas is wearing” Thelrand threw his hand in the direction of the elf who was stuffing paperback sovereigns into his thong.

“Solas? The hobo with the fashion sense of a bogfisher in a potato sack. That Solas?” Dorian folded his arms. “You want me to look at what he is wearing? It is probably boring and tasteless as per—”

Thelrand simply turned Dorian’s head with a single finger towards the stage. He watched his face shift from disdain to bewilderment. A hand carefully swiped his electric blue drink. He took a swig, then another swig.

“Oh my word! I never thought I would say this, but I need to ask our good friend Solas where he got those. I could use them in the bedroom. My ass would look divine in fishnets, don’t you think?”

Thelrand choked, his newly acquired drink coming up through his nose. Dorian turned his head at this. No doubt expecting to see his lover blushing. His eyes narrowed as he instead spotted his drink being pilfered. Dorian slapped at Thelrand’s sneaky fingers. “Why you little thief! I turn my head for one second and you already downed half my drink. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“It tastes like blueberries.” Thelrand said innocently, nuzzling up to his shoulder. “I’m tired.” Thelrand sought out the wispy hair resting on his husband’s shoulder again.

Cassandra grew hopeless watching the quirks of their romance. She was tired of being guarded. She was tired of being armored, even when she wasn’t wearing any. She wanted Cullen. She wanted to make things right. She wanted happiness like Thelrand and Dorian had.

“I’ll be back.” She told them. They didn’t hear her. They were canoodling.

She went to the bar.

 

Cullen was pissed at himself, rubbing down the bar with a smelly rag. Filthy Orlesians spilling their drinks everywhere. He was pissed that she left him in that tower for no rhyme or reason. He was sure she had a reason. She just elected not to share it with him. He deserved that at least. He was pissed that he almost let her kiss him tonight. He would have let her kiss him. Her lips were stained red like a pomegranate. So red. He couldn’t help it. He would kiss her even after everything. He was still hers. He threw the rag on the bar. An angry splat. A customer protested. He apologized, rubbed his neck. Habit.

She had smelled like the calm before a summer rainstorm. Those were common back home. The home of his childhood. His mother hanging up their clothes. He would have to rush with his sister to bring the clothes in before the rain hit. The rain always hit. They danced in it like children. They were children. Happier times. Simpler times. Back when the world made sense.

She smelled like peace. A warrior who smelled like peace. It was strange. Confounding, but strange. Intoxicating too. He always came back for more. He wanted to live in it. He wanted to wake up with blankets that smelled of peace and home and childhood. He wanted to wake up with Cassandra.

“Cullen?” At first, he didn’t recognize her voice. It was timid. Shy. Not Cassandra. He turned and saw her infuriatingly beautiful face. She was wringing her hands.

Her face didn’t look like a storm cloud tonight. It was sad. It was soft. Smooth edges just for him. It did when they made love in that weathered tower back then. He fell for her hard, storm clouds and all. It didn’t matter. He didn’t speak. She did. It sounded like rain.

“I’m sorry, Cullen. For everything.”


End file.
